352

Byron.

I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs,

I saw from out the wave her structures rise,

As from the stroke of an enchanter's wand. C. H. c. iv. s. 1.

See also the next stanza. Mrs. Radcliffe.-Nothing could exceed Emily's admiration on her first view of Venice, with its islets, palaces, and terraces rising out of the sea: as they glided on, the grander features of this city appeared more distinctly; its terraces, crowned with airy yet majestic fabrics, touched as they now were with the splendour of the setting sun, appeared as if they had been called up from the ocean by the wand of an enchanter, rather than reared by human hands.

Myst. of Udol. v. 2. p. 34.

Byron. He who hath bent him o'er the dead, Ere the first day of death is fled, &c. See the rest of this beautiful passage,

as far as

But keep thy tears for me.-Odes and Epistles. Byron.

That little urn saith more than thousand hotnilies. C. H. c. 1. Mavor.-The records of the dead are more impressive than a thousand homilies. British Tourist, v. 6, p. 148.

Byron. The mind and music breathing from her face. Bride of Abyd. 179. His Lordship then gives us a long, and certainly a very elegant note to this passage, the object of which is to assure us that there is music in beauty. He seems especially desirous to impress the perfect originality of this idea upon his readers. But he might have spared himself the trouble; the thought is to be found in one of the old metaphysical poets. The gallant colonel Lovelace has,

[April,

Mon. on Sheridan.

Ariosto.-Natura il fece, e poi ruppi la stampa.

Byron. Still must I on, for I am as weed Flung from the rock on ocean's foam to sail Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail.-C. H. iii. 2. Montgomery. He only, like the ocean weed uptorn,

And loose along the world of waters borne,
Was cast companionless from wave to wave,
On life's rough sea.—World before the Flood.
Byron.

A moment checked his wheeling steed,
A moment breath'd him from his speed.
Giaour, 208.
Walter Scott.-A moment now he slacked
his speed,

A moment breathed his panting steed.
Lay of Min. C. I.
Byron.

Of Gulnare.

and she for him had given Her all on earth, and more than all in heaven.-Corsair, c. iii.

Walter Scott.--And I the cause for whom

were given,

Her peace on earth, her hopes in heaven. Marmion, c. iii.

The following situation, from Parisina, is undoubtedly derived from Marmion. Parisina stands before her judge and lord, trembling at the doom she expects every moment to hear pronounced: Byron.

Still, and pale, and silently, &c.
As ice were curdled in her blood.

*

Fall'n Hassan lies-his unclosed eye
Yet lowering on his enemy,
As if the hour that sealed his fate
Surviving left his quenchless hate.-Giaour.

Sallust. Catilina vero longè a suis inter hostium cadavera repertus est: paululum etiam spirans, ferocitatemque animi quam vivus habuerat in vultu retinens.-Mors Catilinæ.

353

Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart,
And winged the shaft that quivered in his
heart. Eng. Bards. On Kirke White.
Waller. That eagle's fate and mine are one,
Who on the shaft that made him die,
Espied a feather of his own,
Wherewith he wont to fly so high.

Poems, v. ii. p. 29.

Byron.

C. H. c. 4, s. 135.

That curse shall be forgiveness.

Coleridge. And curse him with forgive

Byron.

Hissing, but stingless.-Darkness. Milton. Hissing, but stingless.-Pa. Lost. Byron.

It is the hush of night,

the starlight dews, All silently their tears of love instil, Weeping themselves away.-C. H. c. iii. s.87. Moore.-'Tis evening-now the heats and cares of day

In twilight dews are calmly swept away. ·
Odes and Epist. v. 2. p. 27.
Byron.

I saw thee weep-the big bright tear
Came o'er that eye of blue,
And then methought it did appear,
A violet dropping dew.

Sir W. Jones, in his Essay on the Poetry of the Arabians, says, that their similes are very just and striking; and instances that of the "blue eyes of a woman bathed in tears, to a violet dropping dew," &c.

Byron.

And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider.-C. H. 3.

Beaumont and Fletcher. And feel our fiery horses, Like proud seas under us.-Noble Kinsmen. Byron.

Shall we, who struck the lion down, shall we

Pay the wolf homage?-C. H. c. iv. Colonel Titus.-Shall we, who would not suffer the lion to invade us, tamely stand to be devoured by the wolf?-Killing no Murder.

Byron.

Roll on thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll! &c.-C. iv. 179.

-

Ossian. Roll, streamy Carun - roll our delight will be in the war of the ocean. Roll, streamy Carun, roll, &c. -Cornala.

Byron.

My dog howls at the gate.-C. H. c. 1. Ossian. His grey dogs are howling at home-Fingal

Byron.

Stop, for thy tread is on an Empire's dust.
C. H. c. iii. s. 17.
The grave of France, &c.-Ibid. s. 18.
Oh! Rome, my country, city of the soul, &c.
Lone mother of dead empires!
The Niobe of nations.-C. H. c. iv. s. 68-9.

Thomson.-In the first canto of his "Liberty," draws a comparison between antient and modern Rome, and bewails the change; he goes on to say, that ་་ once glorious Rome" is

A vast monument, the tomb of empire,
Ruins that efface,

Whate'er, of finished, modern pomp can boast.
Byron.

The browsing camel's-bells are tinkling, His mother looked from her lattice high

Why comes he not? his steeds are fleet, &c.

[April,

lowing passages in illustration of the extraordinary system upon which Lord Byron proceeds in the composition of his poetry *.

Byron. Of the Venus de Medicis. We gaze and turn away, and know not where, Dazzled and drunk with beauty. C. H. iv. 50.

Young-Of a woman's face. On which the dazzled eye can find no rest, But drunk with beauty, wanders up and down.-Revenge, a. v. sc. 2.

Byron.

Sorrow is knowledge.-Manfred, a. i. sc. 1. Young-Knowing is suffering.-N. T. vii. Byron.

The vacant bosom's wilderness

Byron.-To Italy.

Even in thy desert what is like to thee!
Thy very weeds are beautiful.

John Wilson.-The very weeds, how lovely!
City of the Plague.
Byron.

There is a war-a chaos of the mind.
Corsair, 937.
Savage.-One anarchy-one chaos of the
mind.-Wanderer, c. v.
Byron.

My soul is dark.-Heb. Mel. Ossian. My soul is dark.-Oina Morul. There are few writers to whom Lord Byron is under such extensive obligations as he is to Dr. Young. Besides innumerable imitations of the style and diction of this poet, his Lordship has frequently transferred whole lines into his productions, from the "Night Thoughts," "The Revenge," and "The Brothers;" and it is well worthy of remark, that although he quotes Young on one or two unimportant occasions, he is inflexibly silent when his own credit would seem to demand an acknowledgment of the source of plagiarisms, numerous and palpable beyond all precedent, from the same author. We may instance the fol

Giaour, 839.

See also the same idea in Canto 1. s. vi. of Childe Harold.

Young. To surfeit on the same (our plea

sures)

And yawn our joys—or thank a misery For change tho sad.-N. T. in.

Byron.

In that deep midnight of the mind. Young.-A more than midnight darkness on the soul.-N. T. n. v.

It may be argued by some, that the obligation of a single line, or a few words, is comparatively insignificant; but such is by no means the case. What some poets would occupy half a page with, is not unfrequently condensed by others into a single line; and by the converse of the rule, whole lines are often crowded into one glowing epithet, one burning word. Lord Byron's writings present a galaxy of vivid expressions. Hence the power and passion of his Lordship's style, which may be compared to rich MOSAIC WORK, rather than to the golden ore of original inspiration. Subtract from many of the most popular passages

* We have not room to quote a sixth part of the plagiarisms from Young. We

extract a few.

LINES

On reading the MS Poems of the late E. I. Esq. of Cambridge, now preparing for Publication.

DEPARTED patron of the Nine,

Thy shade invokes my humble lyre To vibrate o'er thy sacred shrine, With breathings of an holy fire. 'Twas thine to mark the narrow way

That leads us to eternal bliss; Thy Muse's pure effulgent ray Illum'd the path of wretchedness! Still shall thy virtues live in verse,

Enrolled by name that never dies; Which future ages shall rehearse,

Thy genius to immortalize. Rest then in peace, dear sainted shade! While I will supplicate my God To teach me here (though ills invade), To tread the narrow path you trod! T. N.

LINES Written by Moutgomery, on the Death of a beautiful Young Woman, who admired the Writer's Literary Productions, corresponded with him, and died without ever having seen him.

MY fancy formed her young and fair,

Pure as her sister lilies were,
Adorned with meekest maiden grace,
With every charm of soul and face,
That Virtue's awful eye approves,
And fond Affection dearly loves;
Heav'n in her open aspect seen,
Her Maker's image in ber mien.

Such was the picture Fancy drew,
In lineaments divinely true,
The Muse, by her mysterious art,
Had shewn her likeness to my heart;
And every faithful feature brought
O'er the clear mirror of my thought.

But she was waning to the tomb,
The worm of death was in her bloom;
Yet as the mortal frame declin'd,
Strong through the ruins rose the mind.
As the dim moon, when night ascends,
Slow in the East the darkness rends,
Through melting clouds, by gradual gleams,
Pours the mild splendor of her beams,

Then bursts in triumph o'er the Pole,
Free as a disembodied soul;
Thus while the veil of flesh decay'd,
Her beauties brighten'd through the shade,
Charms which her lowly heart conceal'd
In Nature's weakness were reveal'd;
And still th' unrobing spirit cast,
Diviner glories to the last,
Dissolv'd its bonds, and clear'd its flight,
Emerging into perfect light.

Yet shall the friends who lov'd her weep,
Though shrin'd in peace the sufferer sleep,
Though rapt to Heaven the Saint aspire,
With seraph-guards on wings of fire;
Yet shall they weep for oft and well
Remembrance shall her story tell,
Affection of her virtues speak,

With beaming eye and burning cheek,
Each action, word, and look recal;
The last, the loveliest of all,
When on the lap of death she lay,
Serenely smil'd her soul away,
And left surviving Friendship's breast,
Warm with the sun-set of her rest.

THE MAID'S REMONSTRANCE. By T. CAMPBELL. NEVER wedding, ever wooing,

Still a lovelorn heart pursuing,
Read you not the wrongs you're doing
In my cheek's pale hue?
All my life with sorrow strewing,

Wed, or cease to woo.
Rivals banish'd, bosoms plighted,
Still our days are disunited;
Now the lamp of hope is lighted,

Now half quench'd appears,
Damp'd and wavering and benighted,
Midst my sighs and tears.
Charms you call your dearest blessing,
Lips that thrill at your caressing,
Eyes a mutual soul confessing,

Soon you'll make them grow Dim, and worthless your possessing, Not with age, but woe!

THEBE ÆGYPTIACÆ.

MATER severe militiæ ferox,

Quam fortis olim fulminis arbiter Per damna sæclorum fovebat, Per miseri rabiem duelli.

Heu!

Heu! quas in oras, quos iter in specus,
Thebe, phalanges præcipitant tuæ ?
Quæruntne Lethæos recessus,

Ao Stygia rapiuntur undâ.
Quæ somnolento murmure profluens
Lambit silentes Eumenidam domas,
Regesque vulgaresque turbas

Sub gremio pariter coercet ?
Cur, cur querelas fundit inutiles
Musa? O Deorum quam melius decet
Vires recordari perennes,

Et stabilem sine labe legem. Dum per relictas vaditur, urbium Regina, sedes, et loca tristia

Quà muscus albescens et herba

Sacrificas malè vestit aras; Seu quà columnæ marmoreæ tuæ Fractæque moles et penetralia

Disjecta mirantes ocellos

Alliciunt, animumque turbant.
Ne sæviori sorte Britannia
Sic inquinatam pulvere lauream,
Famæque subversæ ruinas
Lugeat et violata fana.

Sed nec revisens nos face fumida
Mavors flagellum vibret aheneum,
Nec defatigatæ cohortes

Nec positæ stimulentur iræ.
Nos, nos tabellæ, nos potiùs sacrum
Marmor, vetustis nos laquearibus
Ornata delectent sacella et
Templa piis viduata turbis,
Murique; Thebe, relliquiæ tui
Splendoris. O, si fortè perambulet
Sepulchra vates, et priorum

Funereas meditetur urnas, Ille æquiori pectine suscitans Arguta blandæ stamina barbiti

Nunc gentium incertos honores,

Nunc iteret mala fata regum.
Ergò aut agrestis murmur arundinis,
Aut vox canora flexilior lyræ

Descendat in tristes cavernas
Quà gelidus dominatur horror.
Ergo solutâ cæsarie senex
Auram sereno carmine mulceat,
Dum calle prærupto laborans
In tacitam spatiatur aulam.
Qua parte passim, sarcophagi tui
Sternuntur atris sordibus abditi,
Saxumque cælatum figuris

Ambiguis, veteresque sellæ.
O quot per annos in liquidum æthera
Titan triumphans intulit aureas
Luces, quot vorum meatu
Præcipiti periere gyri.
Ex quo faventi numine dimicans
Obstabat iris acribus hostium,
Pulchrisque adornabat Sesostris
Muneribus tua templa, Thebe!
At non prioris pignora gloriæ
Delevit ætas; restat adbuc nitor
Eburnus, impictumque gypsum
Perpetuos retinet colores.

[April,

Quin et silent! nox lachrymabilis
Imaginem non Memnonis opprimit,
Quam voce mussantem tenellå
Sæpe redux calefecit Eos.
Io sonoros Musa petit modos,
Alisque longè vecta trementibus
Exoptat horrendum duellum et
Purpureas celebrare cædes,
Et te corona vinctam, Hecatompyle;
Sed heu! tuorum raptat adoream
Livens triumphalem vorago
Tartariæ taciturnitatis.
Robusta dormit progenies tua
Caliginoso mersa silentio ;
Dormit sine inscriptis sepulchris,
Et riguum tegit ossa gramen.
At dum valebas te Sapientia et
Vidit benigno lumine Gloria,
Dulcesque nutrivere risus

Et studium vigilans Deorum.
Queiscunque doctrina et decus artium,
Queiscunque cantûs deliciæ placent;
Vocesve chordarum sonantes,

Aut Lybica chelyos susurri. Non si recondens Nilus origines Interminato volvitur alveo,

Vastoque demiranda Memphis
Pondere Pyramidum renidet,
Te vis maligni noxia temporis
Oblivioso diruet impetu,

Nec quæque mansuros honores
Deproperans abolebit hora.
Quamvis gigantro ingrediens pede
Gentes subactas Barbarus obruit,
Et erubescendo tumultu
Niliacas spoliavit oras,

Quum te viator cernet, ab intimo
Corde insolentem ducet anhelitum,
Tuasque sacrabit ruinas

Ingenuo pia Musa cantu.

The following elegant Stanzas are extracted from Hunter's" History of Hallamshire," reviewed in p. 329. The Writer bears a truly filial heart towards the land of his birth, and has in them beautifully touched upon some of the earlier fortunes of this district.